


Mysterious Ways

by Cyberwulf



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberwulf/pseuds/Cyberwulf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England/Ireland, a one-night stand and the awkward aftermath. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mysterious Ways

  
**Summary:** England/Ireland, a one-night stand and the awkward aftermath. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.

***

Ireland got a light around her, whenever she’d had a few. Or maybe whenever England had had a few. Three or four pints and she always caught his attention, copper hair _glowing_ , lighting up her face. He couldn’t help following her with his eyes as she moved easily through the throng of other countries at the bar, a pint of stout in either hand. Those jeans – jeggings – whatever – should be outlawed; they hugged her arse and clung to her fit, shapely thighs. Her beer belly pooched over them, not quite hidden by the long, slinky top she wore. She strolled to the end of the bar, where America and Canada were waiting. England’s mood soured as she nudged her way in between them, setting her pints on the counter. Even with music and fifty other conversations making it impossible to hear what was being said, he could tell she was flirting. America had his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, murmuring something that brought a delicate pink blush to his cheeks. On her other side, Canada leaned back slightly, running his eyes over her body. England scowled. He finished his pint and called for another.

He couldn’t get too mortal – France was flitting around the bar, a flush of intoxication on his face, rubbing against and bending over for everyone with a cock. He didn’t want to wake up next to _that_ again. England sipped his fresh pint, doing his best not to look towards the end of the bar, where Ireland was hanging off Canada now and America’s hands were straying south.

“Vee~!”

England nearly spilled his drink as a tipsy Italy wrapped his arms around him from behind.

“Gerroff!”

Italy couldn’t hear him and only tightened his hold, rubbing his head against England’s shirt and babbling something indecipherable over the music. Just as England was considering wasting his pint by pouring it over Italy’s head, Germany weaved by and pulled Italy away. He gave England a salute as he shepherded Italy towards the beer garden for some air. England nodded his thanks and went back to his pint. Unconsciously, his gaze strayed back to Ireland. She had her arms around both the North American nations now, talking back and forth from one brother to the other. England drained the rest of his pint in one long, painful swallow and made his way to the gents.

It wasn’t bloody fair. Every post-conference night out, it was the same thing. Ireland flitted from one bloke to another, flirting or touching or just talking to them while they stared into those beautiful, bottle-green eyes that were young and ancient at the same time. But not him. _Never_ him. She acted like the world’s biggest slapper with everyone else and wouldn’t give him time of day. Even though he loved her. Even though he’d always loved her.

England finished up and washed his hands, rubbing his skin harder than was necessary, and went back to the bar for another drink.

Ireland wasn’t at the bar any more. It didn’t take long for England to spot her, on the dance floor with America and Canada. She had her back to America, grinding the sunny south-east against Florida. America had his hands on her hips, and even at this distance England could tell that Texas was fogging up. Canada was content to dance in front of her, running his hands up along her sides.

_“#To touch is to heal, to hurt is to steal  
If you wanna kiss the sky, better learn how to kneel  
On your knees boy”_

Canada did drop to his knees at that, running his hands up Ireland’s legs, and suddenly England was assaulted by the mental image of the three of them naked, America’s hands much higher up, Canada holding Ireland’s hips steady while he flicked his tongue through copper curls England had never even seen, much less touched. Big Ben twitched even as jealousy tore through him, and he turned away.

That bitch, she was doing it on purpose. She had to know how he felt about her. Why did she think he’d been so desperate to hold onto her, even though it had destroyed any love she might have felt for him? England had a long, bitter swallow of his drink. Oh, she was all sweetness and light and the picture of civility to him, to the point that even denser and less-informed nations were starting to realise that they weren’t mortal enemies any more, then she came back here and dry-humped everyone right under his nose to hurt him. Vengeful, spiteful cow. Wouldn’t even give him a chance. He was _better_ now. He’d held her too tight, against her will, so afraid of losing her. It was wrong, he knew that now. If she would just give him a chance, he could show her. He’d be the best she’d ever had.

The song ended and England dared to look up. America had let go of Ireland and Canada was on his feet again. England wasn’t the least bit surprised when America made a beeline for the gents. Probably had a wet spot on the front of his underpants. Ireland put her arms around Canada’s neck, letting him cup her bottom. England watched for a few minutes as they shouted into each other’s ears over the music. To his savage delight, Canada let go and stepped away. Ireland waved him goodbye and weaved in the opposite direction. She left the dance floor, snagged a bottle of vodka off a nearby table and took a mouthful.

Russia stood up, a violet aura of malevolence surrounding him as he gazed at Ireland with that eerie, frozen smile on his face. England tensed, ready to split the larger nation’s head open if he so much as touched a hair on Ireland’s head. Ireland looked at Russia, her mouth still full of stolen vodka. Then she pulled him down by his scarf and kissed him.

Russia’s eyes widened in surprise, a thin stream of vodka trickling down his chin as Ireland transferred the drink from her mouth to his. He let Ireland back him up to his stool and sat down as she finished kissing him, his anger dissipating completely as she thrust his vodka bottle back into his hand. He drew her onto his lap, apparently oblivious to a livid Belarus peering over the edge of the booth, and shot Ireland a goofy, childish grin when she finished kissing him.

England couldn’t take it any more. He bawled at the bartender to give him a bottle of whiskey, and took it out to the beer garden without waiting for his change.

The beer garden was less a beer garden and more a beer greenhouse. The owner had wisely enclosed it with a glass roof and walls, giving the illusion of the outdoors while protecting it from the inclement British weather. It was empty except for one booth, which was occupied by Germany, Italy, Austria, Hungary, Prussia, Spain and Romano – all of them a bit sloshed and sitting on each other’s laps. England heaved an irritated sigh. He didn’t really want company, but he didn’t want to be the pathetic old guy drinking alone either. He swallowed and marched over to the booth next to them.

He set his glass on the table and poured himself a generous measure of whiskey, tossing it back in one gulp. It burned on the way down and England poured himself another. He sipped it slowly, trying not to imagine Ireland in Russia’s lap, snogging him, grinding on him, maybe leading him into the toilets for a good scuttling. Belarus’s angry, almost psychotic expression flashed through his mind. Briefly he considered asking her if she’d like to make her beloved brother jealous. England dismissed the idea almost immediately. Even if she didn’t break out the knives right away, Lithuania would probably get the hump and challenge him to fisticuffs. He didn’t need that kind of aggro.

Still, the idea of getting over her by getting under someone else had merit. England finished his drink and poured himself another one. Someone else with red hair, soft breasts and belly, and legs that went on forever. Someone else with hands that could kill and maim as soon as caress, with ‘Rabies Free’ tattooed across the knuckles. Someone else who pulsed with ancient magic. Someone else who’d never stopped fighting until she got what she wanted.

England moaned and put his head on the table.

The door to the beer garden opened and England looked up. Ireland sauntered into the beer garden, pint in one hand and a fistful of change in the other. At the same moment Germany got unsteadily to his feet and began to head back into the bar, looking over his shoulder and repeating the drinks order back to his friends. He collided with Ireland, who promptly tossed her money onto the ground in front of her.

“Oh – excuse me.” Ever the gentleman, Germany turned away and bent down to pick up Ireland’s change. Ireland leaned back slightly, a lustful smile spreading across her face as she ogled Germany’s arse.

England pushed his glass away and took a slug of whiskey straight from the bottle.

Oblivious to what was really happening, Germany handed Ireland her money and resumed his quest for more drinks. Ireland strolled over, set her pint on England’s table without asking and hopped up on the divider between booths.

“Well lads.”

Hungary gave Ireland a high-five, congratulating her on her little stunt with Germany. England growled. It drew her attention and she turned to look at him.

“What’s _your_ problem?”

He glared at her.

“You, making a spectacle of yourself with every man in here,” he snapped.

Ireland didn’t scowl, glare, or even flinch at his words. Instead she tilted her head to the side and regarded him with a condescending smile. “You’re just jealous ’cos I won’t let you get up on me.”

The fact that she was _right_ stung more than her crude choice of words. England glowered at her in disgust. “You’re _such_ a lady.”

Ireland bristled a little, her fuzzy eyebrows meeting as she leaned forward. “And you’re _such_ a gentleman.”

They held each other’s gaze, then suddenly – almost before England realised what was happening – Ireland slid easily into his lap. He gasped silently at the warm weight of her, and the next moment her lips were on his.

England froze for a moment – it was a trick, she was going to slap him or knee him or something – but then she ran her fingers through his hair and deepened the kiss, shifting on him and _ohhhhh_ all of a sudden England didn’t care about her throwing herself at half the world. He kissed back, tasting stout and vodka and ash. His hands settled naturally on her hips, not daring yet to venture further south. Somewhere to his right he heard the click of a cameraphone. It didn’t matter, _nothing_ mattered except the copper-haired warrior queen in his lap.

Ireland finished the kiss and pulled away slightly, leaving England breathless. She kept gently shifting her weight, rubbing Big Ben in a way that was slowly driving him mad.

“Would you know what to do with me?” she murmured.

England shivered as she rubbed her thumb against one of his eyebrows. He struggled for something snappy and stinging, some way to deny the hold she had on him – the hold she’d had on him for over eight hundred years. Before he could pull himself together Ireland shifted on his lap again, looping her arms around his neck and planting soft, wet kisses along his jaw. He groaned and rolled his hips against her, painfully hard now. He turned his head and managed to capture her mouth in another lengthy kiss. When their lips parted, Ireland rested her head on his shoulder, tracing little circles on his chest with her finger.

England bit his lip to keep from moaning. It wouldn’t take much to bring him off, she was so warm and soft and toned and sitting _just right_ on his aching cock. He was just about to rock against her when she sat up and began to move off his lap.

England grabbed her hips.

“Don’t you dare, you bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth, blushing at the thread of desperation running through his words.

Ireland stopped and gazed at him matter-of-factly.

“If I don’t get up, I’m going to piss myself.”

What could he do? England sighed and reluctantly let go of her. Ireland slid off his lap and headed back to the bar. England fisted both hands in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. He groaned in frustration and slumped back in the booth.

Slowly he realised that they’d had an audience. Hungary, Italy, Romano, Austria, Spain and Prussia were all staring over the edge of the booth. Germany had scooted his stool out slightly to get a better view. England quickly grabbed the table and pulled it closer to his seat, hoping to hide his straining trousers from view.

“Mind your own bloody business!”

Hungary cupped her cheek in one hand and shot him a knowing look.

“I don’t get it,” Romano grumbled. He looked around at the others suspiciously, as if they were conspiring to keep something from him. “I thought they hated each other.”

“Vee, _fratello_ ,” Italy said gleefully, grabbing Romano in a hug, “they’re just like you and Spain!”

Romano turned bright red and tried to get an arm free to punch Italy. “Shut up!”

“All right,” Germany declared, getting carefully to his feet, “that’s enough. Everyone sit back down.”

One by one the other countries went back to their seats, until only Prussia remained, smirking at England over the edge of the booth.

“You know she’s not coming back,” he snickered. England glared at him and reached for his bottle again. Prussia continued. “Want me to go get France? Take the edge off?”

England was about to snap at him when the door to the beer garden opened again. Ireland reappeared, two jackets slung over her arm. She tossed one at England and shrugged into the other.

England stared at his coat, then at Ireland, not quite able to believe what was happening. Ireland jerked her head at the door.

“Well? You coming?”

He felt the stupidest grin in the world spreading across his face, and he didn’t need to look up to know that Prussia’s jaw was on the floor. England stood up, hurriedly pulling on his jacket. Ireland picked up the whiskey bottle and grabbed his hand. England flashed the assembled gawkers the V-sign over his shoulder as Ireland pulled him towards the door.

 

England didn’t let himself believe what was happening until they were through his front door and Ireland was leading him towards the staircase. He paused at the foot of the stairs and pulled her close, kissing her greedily. He shuddered in pleasure when she kissed him back just as eagerly. Ireland clumsily pushed the whiskey bottle into his hand and then wrapped her arms around him, fisting her hands in his coat. She shifted, grinding her crotch against his leg, and he bent his knee slightly to accommodate her. England moaned into her mouth – god, he could feel the heat of her through his slacks.

They pulled away slightly, breathless and dishevelled, gazing into each other’s eyes.

England hiccupped.

He covered his mouth immediately, blushing bright red. Ireland stared at him for a few seconds, then buried her face in his shoulder, giggling hysterically.

It was infectious, and they leaned against each other, shaking with laughter, until England’s common sense reasserted itself. Northern Ireland was in bed, and that meant anywhere between one and all of their other brothers and sisters were home too.

“Shh,” he hissed, a little louder than necessary, but it did the trick. Ireland sobered and pushed herself back onto her feet. He lifted his hand and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Are…are we really doing this?”

Ireland smiled at him, sliding her arms around his neck. “We sure are, pet.”

He led her upstairs.

They were lip-locked again by the time they stumbled through England’s bedroom door. He was breathless by the time they reached the bed, groping blindly for the bedside locker so he could set the whiskey bottle down safely. _Shifting_ , Ireland called it instead of snogging, _wearing_ , _Italy and Germany and they wearing the faces off each other_. He pulled away for air, both hands finally free. He shrugged off his jacket, shaking his arms out of the sleeves, and let it drop to the carpet. He toed off his shoes, then pulled off his socks, hopping momentarily on one foot. By the time England turned his attention back to the bed, Ireland was sprawled barefoot on the quilt, her jacket discarded somewhere on the floor.

A lazy smile spread across her face as she beckoned to him.

England swallowed, painfully aware of the throb in his pants. Her copper hair was spread out on the pillow. One leg was stretched out on the bed, the other bent at the knee with the foot flat on the mattress. She was fully dressed and the pose was still positively obscene. It was everything he’d ever wanted. He nearly stumbled as he approached the bed and climbed up beside her.

“C’mere, hon.”

Ireland tugged on his shirt, pulling him down into another kiss. They rolled around on the bed for a few minutes, pushing the quilt aside as they went. England moaned into Ireland’s mouth as he finally dared to slip his hands under her top, pushing the shiny black material up her body. He’d walked every inch of her land, and yet all of this was uncharted territory. He fumbled briefly with her bra before giving up and pushing that up too, shivering as her breasts slipped out from under it. Unable to resist, he bent his head and took one of them into his mouth, using his hand to fondle the other one. Ireland made a little sound of pleasure as he suckled, gently scratching his head. England moved to nurse at her other breast, and felt Ireland rubbing her thigh against his.

He lifted his head and looked at her, gazing into endless, dark green eyes. Ireland smiled at him, placed her hand on his chest, and pushed him gently onto his side. England slipped an arm around her, cradling her lightly as she slid a finger down his shirt, deftly undoing each button as she reached it, until finally she came to his straining trousers. England couldn’t stop a shiver as she unbuttoned his pants and reached inside with both hands. He groaned as she teased him with slow, firm strokes. England bit his lip, using the pain to bring himself under control. Ireland was making little growly noises, a lusty, pleased expression on her face as she gazed down at his bulging cock. It was almost enough to tip him over the edge.

Abruptly Ireland took her hands away and rolled onto her back. England groaned, ready to call her every name under the sun. The words died in his throat as she undid her flies and wriggled out of her jeans, kicking them off the end of the bed. Her knickers had shamrocks on them. England swallowed thickly, moving to kneel over her. Tentatively he brushed his fingers against the waistband, then slowly pulled them down. Ireland tilted her hips up to help him. There they were – those copper curls he’d been fantasising about earlier, damp and glistening in the moonlight. He resisted the urge to touch them until he’d slid her underwear all the way off.

She spread her legs for him, slick and wet on his fingertips, and bucked involuntarily when he brushed against her clit. England wet his lips and pushed his trousers and underpants down a little further. He dropped a knee on the sheet between her legs, and stopped.

No. Not like this.

Ireland looked at him in confusion as he backed away, and slid down the bed. England nudged her legs further apart, pushing them gently until she got the hint and bent her knees, putting both feet flat on the mattress. Not like a conqueror – like a servant, a slave. He adjusted his position and took hold of her hips, then bent his head and began to lick.

He swore she tasted of beer.

“Nnngh.” England heard a rustle as her toes clenched in the sheets. He lapped slowly at her sex, long strokes to tease her. He tongued her clit, grinning as her hands tangled in his hair and scratched at his scalp. “ _Sasanaaaaaa…_ ”

He focussed all his attention on that one spot, rubbing back and forth, paying attention to every groan, every buck of her hips, until finally the pitch of her voice began to rise and she gasped out “Jesus, I’m – I’m –”

England pulled away suddenly, letting go of her, and sat back on his heels. He allowed a smug smirk to appear on his face as Ireland pushed herself up on her elbows, her face flushed with arousal. Her confused expression quickly gave way to annoyance.

“Oh, you _bollocks_.”

She pushed him over, and roughly tugged off his pants.

“Right, no more messing.” She pointed to the head of the bed, a wicked grin on her face. “Get up by them pillows.”

England grinned back and obeyed, scrambling backwards up the bed. Ireland followed. She pushed him to lean forward and piled the pillows up behind his back.

“Now.” She straddled him, sinking carefully down onto his cock. England groaned at the heat of her, the _tightness_. After all the foreplay, he was big as a house. He didn’t think he could take any more teasing. He cradled her as she began to move, thrusting up to meet her. Her hands were on his shoulders, inside his shirt. One of them crept up his neck and he tilted his head back as Ireland came in for a lengthy kiss. England hummed low in his throat, heat coiling in his belly, toes clenching in the sheets. He fumbled awkwardly but managed to get a hand in between them, brushing through her soaking curls until he felt the nub of flesh between her legs.

Ireland pulled away from the kiss, gasping as she ground against his fingers – he’d brought her closer to the edge than he’d realised. He thrust up into her as hard as he could, the mattress creaking loudly underneath them.

“Hnnngh -!”

Ireland stiffened suddenly, clamping around him, head thrown back, eyes closed, whole body quivering. The sight was too much, and England arched his back as he erupted inside her. He slumped back against the pillows, seeing stars.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was frantic panting as both of them got their breath back. England gazed at Ireland in a daze as he began to soften. She had a sleepy, sated look on her face, and suddenly he was so sorry for so many things.

“Mm.” She shifted and moved off him, grimacing at the wet mess on her thighs. “Have you any tissues?”

England turned away and fumbled in the bedside locker, hating the way his face was growing hot with tears. He found the box of tissues and held it out without looking at her.

“Hey, hey.” Ireland moved up the bed and pulled him into an embrace. “Don’t get upset now.” England buried his face in her breasts as she stroked his back. “It’s all right.”

They stayed like that, Ireland rubbing his back and making soothing noises, and finally England managed to swallow the lump in his throat.

“I’ve to go to the jacks,” Ireland murmured. She tilted his chin up to look at him properly. “I’ll be right back.”

England coughed awkwardly, embarrassment flooding over him, and sat up. “O-of course.” He gestured to the en suite. “It’s right through there.”

Ireland looked where he was pointing, a teasing smile on her face. “Ooh, _swanky_.”

England smiled back, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Perks of being in charge.”

Ireland gave him a quick peck on the cheek and headed for the bathroom. While she was gone, England set about mopping the mess off the sheets. He was just considering whether he should change them completely when Ireland returned and hopped onto the bed. She rearranged the pillows and pulled up the quilt.

“C’mere, love.”

England pulled his shirt off and threw it away. He reached over to the bedside locker for his cigarettes and lighter.

Ireland cursed softly as he lit up. “I swear I’m after leaving me fags in the bar.”

Wordlessly he offered her the packet and lighter.

“Cheers.” While Ireland lit up, England fumbled for his ashtray and set it on the quilt between them.

They smoked in silence, Ireland resting her head against England’s chest. He idly stroked her hair with his free hand. He wanted very badly to ask her why, to see if there was any chance at all of this becoming something more permanent. But he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Ireland sighed as she exhaled, sending a jet of smoke at the ceiling.

“I’m shattered,” she murmured. She stubbed out her cigarette and propped herself up on her elbow to look at him properly. “You fucker, you. The best lick-out I ever had and you stopped at the best part.”

He smirked at her in the darkness. “Serves you right, you bloody tease.”

She slapped him gently on the chest and lay back down. England took one last drag off his cigarette and put it out, then put the ashtray back on the bedside locker. He got comfortable next to her, and closed his eyes. The hard questions could wait till morning.

***

England woke to a mild hangover, sunshine streaming through the window, and a warm body nestled against his. He propped himself up on his elbow for a better look.

Ireland was fast asleep, her back against his front. England let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He settled back on the pillow, curling his arm lightly around her. He’d often dreamed of having her in his bed like this, but he’d never dared to imagine it would ever become a reality.

He lay in silence for a while, listening to Ireland’s gentle breathing. Tentatively England slid his hand under her top and onto the soft flesh of her beer belly. It was a recent development, like Wales’s sooty face, and he knew a lot of nations didn’t find it attractive. But there was a time, not so long ago, when her stomach was concave and her ribs stuck out, and it had been all his fault, just one more way he’d hurt her. She’d recovered, though. No thanks to him.

Ireland stirred, and England withdrew his hand, resting it respectfully on her waist above her top. His anxiety flooded back – he knew from experience that often what seemed like a good idea with a bellyful of booze and a hard cock pressed against one’s arse looked very different in the harsh light of day. There was no telling how Ireland would react once she woke up and realised where she was.

She stretched lazily, and England swallowed as her bare bottom brushed against his thighs. He did his best to stay still as Ireland yawned and half-turned to face him.

England risked a smile. “Morning.”

To his relief, Ireland smiled back. “Morning.”

She hadn’t punched him, or called him a bollocks, or leapt out of bed screaming like a banshee. England took that as a good sign. “Cuppa?”

“Love one.”

England couldn’t help himself. “Earl Grey, English Breakfast Tea, Oolong…?”

Ireland rolled her eyes. “For fuck- tae is tae. Black. Strong. Milk. Sugar.”

England smirked and slid out of bed, pulling on his dressing gown. “Peasant.”

“Snob.”

The rest of the British Isles weren’t stirring, England noticed as he went downstairs. He was glad – he didn’t want to deal with his nosy siblings before he’d had his tea. And if Ireland had second thoughts and decided to scarper while he put the kettle on, then the fewer witnesses the better.

He’d just finished loading up the breakfast tray when Cornwall entered the kitchen.

“Morning, me burd.” She padded over to him, pulling her waist-length blonde hair into a messy ponytail as she went. She stopped short, a smirk appearing on her face when she spotted the two mugs. “Has ’ee had a visitor? Is ’er still here?”

“A gentleman never tells,” England replied, picking up the tray. He smirked at her as he passed by. “And a lady wouldn’t ask.”

Cornwall flashed him the V-sign as he left the kitchen.

The Isle of Man was being violently sick in the bathroom. Scotland was holding her hair, and England scooted past the open door as quickly and as quietly as possible. He absolutely did not want Scotland bellowing crude innuendos for the rest of the house to hear. Mercifully, there were no sounds at all from Wales’ bedroom or the Channel Islands’ room. England nudged his bedroom door open with his hip and shut it behind him in the same way.

An incredible feeling of relief washed over him. Ireland was still in his bed, lying on her side facing the door. She sat up as he approached.

“Are you decent?”

England frowned. “Not really. Why?”

Ireland nodded at the mattress beside her. England’s gaze fell on the copper-haired little boy in the middle of the bed. Northern Ireland was fast asleep, clutching a plush toy bull. England’s heart melted, and at the same time it broke a little. He set the breakfast tray on Ireland’s lap, then grabbed a fresh pair of Y-fronts from the chest of drawers and put them on. He slipped out of his dressing gown and got into bed, taking care not to disturb Northern Ireland. He held his breath as the little province stirred, and let it go when the boy settled back into sleep.

They drank their tea in comfortable silence. England couldn’t believe it. The Republic in his bed drinking her builder’s tea, little North snuggled in between them – he’d wanted it for so long. And yet, as the silence went on, he began to sense – something. Ireland’s demeanour had changed; she was sitting up straighter, all business. Whenever he glanced at her, she met his eye briefly and then looked away.

“Anyone stirring?”

England looked at her. Ireland flashed him a quick smile, then directed her gaze back into her mug.

“Cornwall,” England replied, doing his best to ignore his growing sense of unease. “And Scotland. And the Isle of Man, but she’s somewhat indisposed this morning.”

“Hm.” Ireland finished her tea in one long swallow. “D’you mind if I use your shower?”

England shook his head. “Not at all. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Ireland put the breakfast tray on the bedside locker and got out of bed. She’d put her knickers on while he was downstairs. England watched as she picked up her jeans from the floor on her way to the en suite. He let out a soft groan once she’d closed the door behind her. He’d ruined things, and he didn’t even know how. Northern Ireland stirred, and rolled over to snuggle tighter against him. England buried his hand in the boy’s copper hair and stroked it gently.

He slipped out of bed while Ireland showered, and crept down the hall to the room the Isle of Man shared with Cornwall. He paused before he crossed the threshold – Isle of Man was in bed, passed out peacefully after hoying up everything she’d drunk the night before. England snuck over to the dresser, watching out for the squeaky floorboards, and borrowed Cornwall’s brush and hairdryer.

Ireland was still in the shower when England got back to his bedroom. He left the hairbrush and dryer on Ireland’s side of the bed. He crossed to the wardrobe, selected a fresh pair of trousers, and put them on. He didn’t know if Scotland was up and about or if he’d gone back to bed, and maybe Ireland would prefer to go downstairs by herself no matter who was there to make comments, but the least he could do was offer to run the gauntlet with her.

The water stopped. England picked out a clean shirt. He was about to put it on, then gave his armpit an experimental sniff. Best to freshen up first. He sat at the foot of the bed and waited for Ireland to come out.

He didn’t have long to wait. After a few minutes Ireland emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed and drying her hair vigorously with a towel. She stopped when she saw him, and shot him a nervous smile. England flashed her a brief grin in return.

“Nicked those from the girls,” he said, gesturing awkwardly to the brush and the dryer. “Thought you might need them.”

“Thanks, you’re a star.” Ireland draped the towel around her shoulders and picked up the hairdryer. England let out a breath as she began to dry and brush her hair. At least she wasn’t running.

He ducked into the en suite and had a quick scrub-up in the sink. He didn’t want to shower – if Ireland left, he wouldn’t hear her over the running water. And he didn’t want her to leave until he’d figured out the reason for the sudden awkwardness between them. Things were so perfect when they woke up. What had gone wrong?

England emerged from the bathroom just as Ireland finished drying her hair. The noise hadn’t disturbed Northern Ireland – the little province was still snoozing away on England’s side of the bed. He picked up his clean shirt and paused to watch as Ireland began to brush those beautiful copper locks. Their centuries together should have been peppered with little domestic moments like this, instead of screaming and fistfights. England turned away before his regrets overwhelmed him, and finished getting dressed.

“That’s better,” Ireland murmured. England looked back at her. She was gazing into the mirror above the dresser, making a few final touches to her hair. “Now I won’t have to walk through the town with a head like a _sceach_.” She glanced at him. “I don’t suppose the lads made any breakfast.”

England shrugged. He wasn’t happy with Ireland’s reluctance to look at him properly, but surely it was a good sign that she was considering staying for breakfast. “I’ll make us something.”

“Fair enough.” Ireland finished primping and picked up her jacket. She finally made eye contact with him, a teasing smirk on her face. “Now remember, if you’re boiling an egg you have to heat the water. And toast is made from bread.”

England rolled his eyes. “I’m not completely useless, you know.”

Ireland clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder, and they left the room.

As they approached the kitchen, England wondered if Ireland remembered what he’d said earlier about Scotland being up. He was just about to warn her when he spotted Scotland through the open doorway, sitting at the kitchen table in his dressing gown reading the paper. He tugged on Ireland’s sleeve.

“Maybe we should go out for breakfast,” he murmured.

Ireland hesitated. For a moment, she looked trapped. “Well –”

Scotland chose that moment to put down his newspaper and turn towards them.

“Oh, was Big Ben in the Shannon estuary last night?” England glared as Scotland stood up and escorted them into the kitchen, his arms around their shoulders. “Come in, sit doon! Cornwall, fry up a few rashers, help the wee lassie get her strength back.”

Ireland glared at him, but sat down.

“Stop bloody shouting,” England groused, taking a seat next to Ireland. “People are trying to sleep.”

Cornwall set a mug in front of him and another in front of Ireland. “Tea’s made,” she remarked, gesturing to the pot. England picked it up and filled Ireland’s mug before he poured any for himself. He did his best to ignore Scotland leaning forward on the table, one thick eyebrow arched and a stupid smirk on his face. Ireland flashed England a brief smile of thanks, before adding about four spoons of sugar to her tea.

“So, tell, tell,” Scotland teased. “Did he kiss the Blarney Stone?”

Ireland frowned so hard that her eyebrows met – something England had learned to recognise as a very bad sign. “I’ll kick you in the Outer Hebrides now in a minute.”

Scotland seemed oblivious to the gathering storm. He turned to England, gesturing at Ireland. “Now, that doesnae sound like a lassie who’s been properly satisfied. I’d take her back upstairs if I were you.”

“Shut it,” England snapped. Scotland leaned back a little, momentarily stunned into silence. England knew it wouldn’t last long. Before Scotland could say something else filthy and infuriating, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Where’s Wales?”

Cornwall and Scotland exchanged glances. Before England could wonder what that meant, the front door rattled as someone opened it clumsily and proceeded to fall through the doorway. Scotland crossed to the kitchen door and had a look, then stood back, grinning, arms crossed over his chest. “Here comes the dirty stop-out now!”

Wales stumbled into the kitchen, reeking of wine and cheap aftershave. He leaned heavily against the doorframe and gave everyone a bleary-eyed wave. England heaved a sigh of relief, silently blessing his oldest brother for the distraction.

“Still drunk this morning, I see,” Scotland said mock-sternly, putting his hands on his hips. “And just where have you been all night, young man?”

Wales gave him a shit-eating grin. “Oh, hither and yon, you know.” He tossed a bag full of croissants on the table.

“Oh, me ’ansum, not France again,” Cornwall chided. “Thy todger’ll fall off.”

Wales weaved over to the kitchen table and sat down rather heavily.

“If you want to get technical, then I think you mean my arse’ll fall off,” he retorted with a smirk.

England sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Please_ spare us the gory details of your depraved sexual shenanigans with the damned frog. Some of us were about to have breakfast.”

Wales scowled at him, offended. “You’re very high and mighty for someone who shagged his own sister last night.”

Ireland and England looked at each other in shock.

“How –” England looked at Wales, then at Scotland, who was laughing up his sleeve, and finally at Cornwall, who shrugged.

“Right,” Ireland declared, standing up, “I’m going home, because that’s fucking creepy.” She looked at England. “Walk me to the hotel?”

England nodded. “Gladly.”

The relief England felt at being out of the house and away from the peanut gallery quickly evaporated as he and Ireland walked to her hotel. She was at his side and a million miles away at the same time, not looking at him, never saying a word. England kept stealing glances at her, trying to read her expression. What was she thinking right now?

“Hnh.” She nudged him suddenly and gestured to something across the street. England looked, just in time to see Germany jump down from a fire escape, zig-zag though some wheelie bins and then vault over a six foot wall, disappearing out of sight.

“Swimming in beer last night, free-running this morning,” Ireland remarked. “Must be great to be a hundred and nothing.” She glanced at England and shot him a brief smirk. “Next time he comes over to check the books I think I’ll let out the bull and see what he does.”

England tried to smile back, and take it as the light-hearted banter Ireland was striving for. He couldn’t – she was too nervous, blurting out anything for the sake of breaking the silence. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with alcohol consumption, and it seemed to get worse with every step they took.

They reached the hotel, and England walked Ireland inside. She turned to him and took both his hands, unable to meet his eyes.

“Will you – just hang on here for a minute while I get changed?” she asked. “Then we’ll have a bit of breakfast.”

England nodded. “Of course.”

Ireland nodded back. “Okay.” She finally managed to look at him. “I’ll be five minutes.”

England watched her jog over to the lift, then sank into one of the armchairs dotted around the lobby. He had a pretty good idea where the morning was going. She was going to take him to some hole in the wall café or greasy spoon diner, where she knew he wouldn’t make a scene, and then tell him that last night was a big mistake and they couldn’t do it again and please don’t breathe a word of it to anyone because she was drunk and didn’t know what she was doing. England took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He should just leave. Text her and say there’d been an emergency, then just stay out of her way until her pressing need to ruin everything good about last night faded and they could both pretend they’d forgotten about it. But that was cowardly, and he was no coward. So he waited.

Ireland emerged from the lift, dressed in a cream-coloured Aran jumper and baggy blue jeans that hid her body shape. It made her look softer, and England had a nearly overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. She grinned at him as she approached, and tugged at his hand.

“Are you hungry, because I’m starving,” she remarked, her nervousness clear in her voice as she led him towards the exit. “I’d eat a horse’s arse through a hole in the hedge.”

“Well I wouldn’t go quite that far,” England managed, “but yes, I could eat.”

“Grand, grand.” Ireland seemed distracted, not looking at him as she led him down the street to a small café on the corner. England didn’t reply. _Stiff upper lip, old chap,_ he told himself. _Don’t let her see you hurting._

For all her protestations of hunger, Ireland only ordered tea and toast. England found his own appetite had deserted him, and did likewise. When he took out his wallet, she gestured for him to put it away.

“I’ll get this,” she insisted, and paid before he could object.

England followed her over to a table by a window, away from the other customers. Just as he suspected – secluded enough for them to talk, public enough to discourage him from yelling or arguing. Well, he didn’t need to raise his voice to get in a few barbs of his own.

Ireland poured her tea and had a quick mouthful of toast before finally saying, “We need to talk.”

England pretended he hadn’t heard her. “Hm?”

Ireland squirmed a little, and suddenly England didn’t want to play dumb and let her continue.

“We don’t have to,” he said quickly.

“Yeah, we do,” Ireland replied. Before he could interrupt again, she rushed on. “Look – I think I led you on last night and I’m really sorry.”

That was not what England was expecting to hear. He blinked a couple of times, trying to figure out what on earth she meant. Was she apologising for her wanton behaviour in the bar…? That hardly made any sense. Although if she was, perhaps the situation wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined.

Ireland was looking at him, and belatedly he realised she was expecting him to say something.

“Well, since you followed through with it, I won’t complain,” he answered with a smirk.

Ireland didn’t smile. Instead she shook her head slowly.

“I saw the look on your face when you spotted the child in the bed with me,” she explained. “Jesus, E-” She stopped herself, mindful of the other customers around them. “- Arthur, I’d no idea. I mean, I’ve seen you giving me dirty looks when I’m chatting up fellas but I didn’t realise –” Ireland stopped again, a guilty blush coming over her face. She leaned forward, gently placing her hands on his. “- I honestly thought it was a conqueror thing. That you were just pissed off because you couldn’t control me. I – God, if I’d known I would never have shifted you.”

England felt his stomach twist.

“What, you’re apologising because you think you’ve broken my heart?” he asked, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest.

“I’m apologising because I know what you want,” Ireland explained gently. She shook her head slightly. “And I can’t give it to you, I can’t do it. I gave you false hope and I’m so, so sorry.”

England pulled his hands out from under hers. He felt naked suddenly, and angry that he’d exposed himself so badly with something as simple as a glance at a sleeping child.

“How do _you_ know what I want?” he spat.

Ireland withdrew her hands back to her side of the table, wrapping them around her mug. England felt like storming out, apology _not_ accepted, and leaving her to stew in her own guilt. But there was something he had to know.

“What _was_ last night, then?” he asked bitterly.

Ireland looked up at him, mouth twitching upwards in a brief smile.

“Well, at first I was only going to shift you,” she confessed. Her expression turned coy and she looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. “But well, you got such a horn on you that I…”

A cold, sick feeling washed over England suddenly, his words to her in the bar the night before - _don’t you dare, you bitch_ \- flooding back to him. Oh God, had he made her feel like she had to…?

“I – I would never have forced you,” he fumbled out. “I would have been angry if you hadn’t come back, but –”

“I _know_ that, yeh thick,” Ireland interrupted gently. She briefly squeezed his hand. “What I mean is, you’re not the only one who’s thought about it.” She ran her eyes over him, a wistful look on her face. “Every now and then I’d imagine what it would be like to have you all undone, begging for me…”

The memory of her teasing him the night before resurfaced, and England felt his face getting hot. He’d let himself believe that she’d finally put the past behind her, that last night was the start of a beautiful new phase of their relationship. Instead this had been a power trip for her all along, petty, spiteful revenge for seven hundred years under his control. Like hell she hadn’t known how he really felt!

“So last night was just you acting out your sick fantasies,” he snarled, struggling to keep his voice from rising. “I might’ve known, you deceitful cow.”

Ireland glared at him.

“If you’d let me fucking _finish_ ,” she hissed, “I was _going_ to say that since then I’ve got fond of you.”

All of England’s anger drained away. For a few seconds he was speechless.

“…Fond?”

“Yeah,” Ireland snapped. “Over the last seventy-five years or so, I’ve got fond of you.” She stared out the window for a moment, fuming. “Fuck knows why, you moody little prick.” Ireland looked back at the table and flicked away a stray crumb. “And when I thought about you, _that_ way…it was nice. We were equals.”

England swallowed.

“I – I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me,” he murmured, staring shamefacedly at the table-top.

“Oh, you’re not forgiven.” England looked up at her sharply, feeling like he’d been slapped. Ireland’s annoyed expression softened. “But independence is a funny thing. It takes the sting out of history.”

England didn’t quite know how to respond. Before he could think of anything to say, Ireland continued.

“Listen, I had a great time last night,” she said gently. She smiled at him, the first genuine smile he’d seen from her since he’d brought her up her tea. “You’re some man between the sheets. And I wouldn’t mind doing it again.” Her smile faded and she grew serious. “But I can’t, now that I know how you feel.”

England folded his arms, feeling insulted. How dare she treat him like some emotionally vulnerable teenager, as if he couldn’t separate a bit of fun in bed from a meaningful relationship. “And I don’t get a say in this. You’re just going to decide everything.”

He realised, too late, exactly what that brought to mind, and for a moment Ireland looked like she was going to state the obvious. Instead she answered, “I’d feel like I was using you.”

“Maybe I want to be used,” England shot back petulantly.

Ireland took a deep breath and let it out.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she repeated. “Again, I mean. I can see that I’ve hurt you now.” England huffed, the vulnerable, exposed feeling returning. “And I’m –”

“…sorry,” England interrupted. “Yes, I heard.” He stood up, unable to bear it any longer, to see that guilty, pitying look on her face. He didn’t need her fucking pity or her apologies. He took a few steps towards the door, then turned back, fumbling for his wallet. He threw a tenner on the table in front of her.

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling,” he snapped, looking down at her. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea, and you’re ten a penny.”

Ireland just looked up at him. England held her gaze for a few seconds, then turned on his heel and stalked away.

He heard voices in the kitchen when he opened the door. A quiet murmur that he recognised as the Isle of Man, quickly drowned out by Scotland.

“Aye, I’m no’ kiddin’ – large as life!” England didn’t have to guess what they were talking about. He walked past the open door, ignoring the scrape of Scotland’s chair on the floor. “Oh, you’re home! We didnae expect you back till supper.” England heard heavy footsteps on the tiles as Scotland crossed to the doorway. “Did she at least invite you up for a quickie?”

England kept walking. If he turned around, he’d end up punching Scotland in his stupid beardy face. He stopped short when he reached the staircase. Northern Ireland was coming down, rubbing one eye sleepily. The little province stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at England in confusion.

“Where’s the Republic?”

England looked away and tried to collect himself. “Gone home,” he offered shortly.

Northern Ireland looked up at him. “Are ye two in love?”

England swallowed. The hopeful look on the boy’s face threatened to tear what was left of his heart to pieces. He and the Republic as a couple would have done so much for the North, made him feel more like a blend of traditions instead of two sides at odds with each other. And now it would never happen.

“No, lad,” he managed at last, the words thick in his throat. “She just needed a place to stay last night, that’s all. So I –” He stopped before his voice cracked, took a deep breath, and continued. “ – I let her sleep in my bed.”

Northern Ireland dropped his gaze, staring at the carpet. His shoulders rose and fell as he heaved a sigh of disappointment.

“Oh.”

England’s heart broke a little more. He knew he should comfort the boy, but he didn’t think he was capable right then. Before he could make up his mind what to do, Cornwall came out of the kitchen.

“Come on, my lovely,” she said gently, taking the North by the hand. “ ’Ee must be starving. How does a couple of sausages sound?”

She gave England a sympathetic look as she led Northern Ireland into the kitchen, and England turned away sharply. Scotland and the Isle of Man were probably gawking, too, dying to talk about it as soon as he was out of earshot. England mounted the stairs and took them as quickly as he could.

His bed was still unmade, the quilt on his side pushed down slightly where the North had clambered out of bed, and completely thrown back on Ireland’s side where she’d got out to have her shower. Cornwall’s hairdryer was on the dresser. Her brush lay next to it, still bearing stray copper strands of hair. The bottle of whiskey was on the bedside locker, next to his cigarettes and lighter, and the ashtray containing two butts. The bottle was still three quarters full.

England toed off his shoes, picked up the bottle, and had a healthy swig. He crawled into the bed on Ireland’s side and buried his face in her pillow, breathing in the smell of turf and salt water and the fragrance of alcohol that followed her everywhere whether she was drunk or sober. Just a few hours ago he’d had her in his arms. She should still be here, curled up beside him. They should’ve spent the morning making love, waiting for the others to go about their business before they went downstairs. England tipped the bottle up, swallowing as much of the liquid as he could without choking. Somewhere at the back of his mind a little voice was whispering that this was a very bad idea, but damn it, he’d paid for this whiskey and he was going to finish it.

_I’m fond of you_ , she said. _You’re not forgiven_ , she said. What the bloody hell kind of sense did that make? Bitch. Contrary, cock-teasing – god, he could smell her all over his sheets. England moaned unhappily and let the arm holding the bottle dangle off the edge of the bed, welcoming the warm, heady feeling of alcohol on a nearly empty stomach. He was going to lie here and smell her and drink till everything just went away.

 

England woke up hours later in Scotland’s bed, wearing clean pyjamas and nursing a hangover. There was a glass of water and a couple of Alka-Seltzer on the bedside locker. England tossed the pills into the glass and drank the fizzy mixture down.

He tried to settle back into sleep, but he couldn’t – not in Scotland’s room. The sunlight behind the tartan curtains was making his headache worse. England slid out of bed and stumbled down the hall to his own room. He pushed the door open, and stopped.

His quilt was gone, replaced with blankets. The matching pillowcases had been replaced with old, plain white ones. Cornwall’s hairbrush and dryer were missing from the dresser. The whiskey bottle was gone, and his ashtray had been emptied and cleaned. England crossed to the bed and peeled back the covers. He buried his face in the sheets.

Fresh from the clothesline.

England sat up and punched the nearest pillow as hard as he could. They’d erased every trace that she was ever here, without so much as a by-your-leave. Interfering bastards. He stormed out of the room in search of someone to yell at.

The house was oddly quiet, England noticed as he stomped downstairs. There was no-one in the kitchen, or the sitting room. He heard muted sounds from the den, and headed towards it. Cornwall was sitting on the couch, doing cross-stitch while keeping half an eye on the TV. She looked up as he walked inside.

“Hello, burd,” she murmured. She nodded at the television. “I didn’t wake ’ee, did I? I’ll turn it off if ’ee want to get more sleep.”

Her concern for him derailed England momentarily. Struggling to hold onto his anger, he growled out, “Where is everyone?”

“Well, Guernsey phoned, ’bout an hour ago,” Cornwall replied, setting her needlework down. “He and Jersey woke up in a field somewhere up north, they’re trying to work out where they are and how to get home, so they’re not back yet. Isle of Man took Northern Ireland to the playground, and Scotland’s gone grocery shopping. So till Wales gets up, it’s just ’ee and me.”

England swallowed. He wondered whose idea it had been to get Scotland out of the house so he wouldn’t have to face him when he got up. The Isle of Man had been pretty sick this morning, yet she’d volunteered to take Northern Ireland somewhere so he wouldn’t see big brother England in such a state. And Cornwall had stayed behind so he wouldn’t be completely alone when he woke, even though it meant bearing the brunt of his bad mood.

“You changed my sheets,” he said at last. All his ire was gone, and it came out small and sad.

Cornwall gave him a sympathetic smile and came towards him.

“Here.” She handed him the remote control. “I’ll put the kettle on. Make ’ee a nice pasty.”

She patted him on the shoulder as she walked past, and England reached out, touching her lightly on the arm. Cornwall paused and looked at him.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Cornwall nodded and went on her way.

England took his time with the pasty, just in case the heavy mix of meat and pastry upset his stomach. It all stayed down, and he felt a bit more human by the time Wales mooched into the den, bearing more tea and a packet of biscuits. As the afternoon faded into evening, the rest of the family began to return. Scotland came home and went straight into the kitchen, putting away the shopping, getting dinner started and keeping his mouth shut. Northern Ireland bounded into the den and climbed up on the sofa next to England, offering him chocolate. He accepted, and shot the Isle of Man a grateful smile over the back of the sofa. Scotland made shepherd’s pie for dinner and they ate it in the den, watching telly as a substitute for conversation. Around ten o’clock Jersey and Guernsey rolled in with chips for everyone. By the time England crawled into bed, between freshly washed sheets and with a belly full of comfort food, he had almost forgotten the heartbreak of that morning.

Almost.

***

Ireland got a light around her, whenever England had had a few.

He could see her from where he stood at the bar. She was sitting in a booth and holding forth while America, Canada and New Zealand hung on her every word. From her hand gestures, and the speed at which her glass was emptying, England deduced that she was telling a story. When he caught the barman’s attention, he ordered a couple of extra pints.

It had been three months since their night together. Three months he’d spent avoiding her, sending Scotland and Wales to meetings in his place. Three months he’d spent doting on and spoiling Northern Ireland, lavishing the boy with all the affection he couldn’t give the Republic. He hadn’t had much else to do, especially since for the first two weeks his wallet and mobile mysteriously went on holidays with the liquor cabinet. It had irked him at first, but in their own interfering, we-know-best way, his brothers and sisters had done the right thing. Crawling into a bottle and drunkenly calling and texting Ireland wouldn’t have done any good. By the time his phone and wallet turned up and the liquor cabinet reappeared, his urge to drink himself into oblivion had faded.

Getting up the courage to see her again had taken longer. And, again, it had been his interfering brothers who’d given him the final kick in the rear he’d needed.

_“You can’t hide from her forever, you know,” Wales chided. It was just the three of them, sitting in the den with the telly on for company. “You’ll have to see her again sooner or later.”_

_Before he could reply, Scotland cut in, glowering at Wales._

_“Aye, you would say that,” he spat, “gettin’ all chummy with her. You’ve nae loyalty.” He turned to England, pushing his thumb into his chest. “ **I’m** no’ speakin’ tae the callous bitch. Treating you like a fucking dildo, leaving you drunk and crying in the bed while she skips on her way, spreading her legs for half the toon –”_

_England’s initial surprise at Scotland’s vehemence quickly gave way to anger, both at the reference to how badly he’d dealt with Ireland’s rejection of him and how unfair Scotland was being to her – even if it was on England’s behalf. Ireland hadn’t done anything wrong, and England damn well didn’t need Scotland involving himself in the situation._

_“First of all,” he interrupted, “I didn’t **cry**. Second – ” He hesitated for a moment, trying to pick the right words without giving his true feelings for her away. “ –she didn’t bloody know, all right? She’s not a fucking mind-reader. She wasn’t out to hurt me – you weren’t even there. So stay out of it. And third –” He grabbed Scotland by his T-shirt. “-talk about her like that again, and I’ll kick your head in!”_

It wasn’t until the following morning, when he was still fuming with indignation on Ireland’s behalf, that England realised he’d been conned. Of course Scotland hadn’t fallen out with her. His whole rant was carefully rehearsed, designed to prod England into defending her. More than that, it had made him think about that morning again, about what Ireland had said and done. If she’d wanted to be nasty, she could’ve strung him along for months, offering just enough crumbs of affection to keep him hanging on while she took what she wanted. It would certainly have been much easier for her to simply tell him goodbye in the kitchen, or even at her hotel, and leave him to hope their night together meant a chance at something more in the immediate future…only to break his heart at the next world conference, when she flirted with all and sundry and then feigned ignorance of his feelings when he confronted her, _it was only a ride, I thought you understood._ Instead she’d taken responsibility, even though she couldn’t have known – he believed that now – and apologised. She’d hurt him, yes, but to avoid a greater hurt further down the line. Ireland had behaved like a grown-up, and it was time for him to do the same.

So here he was, four pints gathered in his arms, making his way across the crowded pub towards her. She’d caught his eye a few times during the conference, directing smiles his way, but had given him space otherwise. She’d been very sedate all night, no grinding or dancing or snogging, and England knew that was for his sake. He weaved carefully around Seychelles and Ukraine, and got close enough to hear the conversation.

“…and I hear this scratching at the door,” Ireland was saying. She paused and had a sip of her pint. “So I prod the big man awake and ask him what it is. And he said nothing for a minute, and then he kinda squeaked and said ‘Belarus’…”

“Oh, man!” America groaned with a smile, pressing his hand against his forehead.

“Yeah, you know where this is going, don’t you?” Ireland laughed, gesturing to him. “I didn’t. I thought she’d lost her key or something . I mean I know Belarus, she comes over for a few weeks every summer with Ukraine and the poor craythurs from Chernobyl. So I threw a few clothes on me and went to answer the door.” She had another mouthful of cider. “Soon as I moved, Russia was out of the bed like a shot. And what does he do?”

She paused dramatically. America, Canada and New Zealand leaned in more closely, giving her their full attention.

“Picks me up –” Ireland gestured for emphasis, “-and fires me out the fucking window.” As her audience cracked up, she repeated herself. “Out. The fucking. Window. Into a _snowbank_.” She finished her pint. “So I’m digging myself out of that wondering what the fuck is going on, and the next thing he lands on top of me. I said to him, next time we’ve to make our escape, you jump first so I can land on your belly, give me some chance.”

England chose that moment to set his pints on the table, two next to Ireland’s empty glass. Ireland looked up at him in surprise.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear you polluting the children’s minds with your filth,” he answered with a smirk.

Ireland moved up a little and patted the seat beside her. “Well sit down and don’t be hovering.”

England slid into the booth next to her. There wasn’t a whole lot of room, and he felt a slight blush come into his face as their thighs brushed together.

“Come on, fellas, let’s get some more drinks in,” New Zealand said suddenly, throwing her arms around America’s and Canada’s shoulders. She and Canada stood up, but America stayed put.

“Hey! America!” New Zealand tried again, tugging at his arm. “Let’s go get a few brews, hey?”

“Huh? No, I’m okay, really,” America replied. New Zealand scowled at him and nodded her head vigorously in England and Ireland’s direction. Understanding suddenly dawned, and America leapt to his feet. “Oh! I mean, good idea, guys.” He turned to the two older nations and shot them an exaggerated wink. “We’re gonna give you two lovebirds some privacy.”

Canada smacked his palm against his forehead as America escorted him and New Zealand away.

Ireland stared as the three younger countries disappeared into the crowd.

“Fucking Hungary,” she remarked, shaking her head. “These auld married ones, they’ve nothing better to do only talk about everyone else.”

England chuckled and had a sip of his pint.

“So, what happened with Russia?” he asked, keeping his tone as even as he could.

Ireland looked at him, a faint smile on her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked. At his confused expression, she dropped her head and played idly with a bar mat. “I em…I kinda got the impression from the two lads that I left you in a bad way.”

England looked away and huffed in annoyance. He wondered if he could get the fairies to sew Scotland’s and Wales’ mouths shut for a few days. Maybe a few weeks. They could survive off their beer guts for that long. Ireland shifted on the seat beside him, putting a little more distance between them. England shook his head slightly, letting go of his irritation. She was asking because she cared.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and realised to his surprise that he _was_. A little bruised, but on the mend. He glanced at her and offered her a smile. “By the way, thank you for – for giving the flirting a rest tonight.”

Ireland smiled back. “I told you I was fond of you.” She patted him on the shoulder, then grew serious. “Now I’ll be flirting with people next time, just so you know.”

England nodded, doing his best not to let the little pang he felt at her words show in his face. “I understand.” He looked away, rubbing his neck. “And I’m – sorry for what I said to you.”

Ireland shrugged. “You were upset.”

“Still.” England had a mouthful of beer, keeping his eyes fixed on the table.

“Listen…” Ireland reached out and covered his hand with hers. England looked up, meeting her gaze. “…next time you drop the North off for a visit, why don’t you stay for a few days? Be good for him, the three of us spending time together.”

England nodded. “I’d like that.”

They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes. There were so many things England wanted to say – insist he was over his feelings for her; that he’d be all right with a quick roll in the hay with no strings attached; ask if there was any chance, even seven hundred years from now, if they could ever be more than what they were. But none of those conversations would lead anywhere good. He glanced at her, and she met his eye – endless green depths staring back at him.

“May I kiss you?”

He could hear his heart beating while Ireland considered.

“All right,” she said at last.

England leaned forward, gently cupping her cheek. He kept it chaste, just brushing her lips with his own before pulling back. Ireland smiled warmly at him…then abruptly she leaned forward and past him.

“Oh, there she is – eyes out on stalks!” England looked and spotted Hungary, cameraphone trained in their direction. Ireland hung onto the table with one hand and pointed with the other. “Would you ever go home and fuck your husband up the arse the way he likes!”

England put his head in his hands, appalled by her behaviour, as Ireland sat back down. “Fishwife!”

Ireland rolled her eyes and punched him lightly in the arm.

“You love it.”

England punched her back, and Ireland ruffled his hair. She picked up her pint and England did likewise.

“You never answered my question,” he remarked, sipping his drink.

“What – oh, what happened with Russia?” Ireland replied. She set her glass down and pushed her hair out of her face. “Well, after digging ourselves out of the snowbank I had a mad hankering for curry chips, so off with us. Now it’s four o’clock in the morning of course, so we’re not having much luck –” She drained her glass and started on her next drink. “ – and the big man starts getting upset, because here I’ve come all this way, I brought my special potato drink to get him ripped to the tits, and not a curry chip to be found in all of Moscow…”

England smiled faintly as Ireland continued the story, sipping his pint slowly as she talked. Their relationship would never be what he wanted, but that was all right. She didn’t hate him anymore, and that was what was important. Right now, he was content just to be near her.


End file.
